This is laid out flat, like a map
whatever has meaning in life
must vex to a halt, a
meticulous picture of every­thing you need
and need to know,
can’t have, and won’t.
The perfectionists, the mad

no tolerance for
the sound of water boil­ing.
It’s coffee-time in seven
of seven con­ti­nents, and here
my cig­a­rette burns, 

yellow smoke rings.
That boy.

I hate myself for lov­ing
he sleeps under warm, downy blankets

I remain cold,
leav­ing me all too bleak


Nights like these
the weak take over
Creeds clos­ing in
promises of com­fort
Acrid endings.

No time for confessions
I am still blinded by the sun, 

Always arising, coming up
pre­dictable as crops
At all hours does this heart of mine

Waxes equidistantly. 

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